by J. F. Kirwan
43A was actually between 47 and 45 for some unknown reason, and was downstairs, a cellar flat. For a moment Greg wondered if he should have told Donaldson, but here he was, so he’d stick to the plan. He peered down to the flat. Dim yellow light oozed from behind thick curtains. Noise, cacophonous music, a deep bass rhythm, seeped upwards. He pulled open the rusted gate, which shrieked conveniently for Fergus, descended the rubbish-laden steps, and stood outside the heavy wooden door. On the other side might be answers, some kind of solace, a fresh lead, the raking over of unhealed scars, or a complete and utter waste of time.
Greg had to know.
He knocked, hard. The music didn’t stop. He made out sounds of TV and possibly radio as well. Deadbolt locks clunked into their recesses, and the door swung open, revealing a man a foot shorter than Greg, with thick ginger hair and a beard that encroached on his cheeks, as if he was trying to shelter behind it. Hunched shoulders, hooded eyes that darted around, fingers that clenched and unclenched into loose fists: the ensemble spoke a simple message to Greg.
Fergus was terrified.
‘Come in,’ he said, his voice tinny and scratchy. ‘Quickly.’
The sheer mess of the place – the clothes and open books, with Chinese food cartons and plates and cups and cutlery littering all surfaces – wasn’t the thing that struck Greg. Nor was it the ear-crushing cocktail of stereo, TV and a radio, all turned up loud. It was the chalk pentangle on the parquet floor skirting around a giant beanbag that looked like he slept on it, the Eye of Horus hand-painted clumsily on the wall behind the television, and other mystic paraphernalia including crystals, Tibetan prayer wheels, and Shaman talismans, either dangling from the ceilings, plastered on the walls and the inside of the window, or propped up on the cheap bookshelf.
He'd seen this kind of interior décor before, though mainly in books during his studies. It was the bric-a-brac of a number of serial killers over the years who specialised in ritualistic killings, especially in South America and Asia – less so in Europe. Even so, this was different. Usually such murderers used the stuff to invoke the devil or just to scare the crap out of their victims. Fergus’s place was all about protection, trying to keep something or someone out. Unfortunately, it also spelled out in giant-size font that Fergus was almost certainly a bona fide nutjob.
Fergus scooped up a pile of books from a dilapidated armchair, and sat down on the beanbag opposite, depositing the pile to one side. He gestured to the chair.
‘Any chance you can lower the noise?’ Greg shouted.
Fergus switched off the radio and stereo but left the TV blaring with some American cop show. ‘Sorry,’ Fergus said. ‘I need noise to think.’
It would have to do. Greg wanted to get on with it.
Fergus began talking in a rush, never looking directly at Greg, mumbling into his beard, his voice only marginally louder than the TV. Greg had to strain to catch his words.
‘You want to know how I know about the tattoo, how I know The Dreamer is dead, and what else I know about your wife’s true murderer?’
At least some of the lights were on in Fergus’s head. ‘That about covers it.’
Fergus nodded several times in quick succession. ‘First you have to agree to hear me out. After that it’s up to you.’
Greg sat back. How bad could it be, after some of the crazies he’d interviewed in the last decade?
‘I’m all ears.’
The TV cop show switched to ads.
‘Obviously, you know why he was called The Dreamer,’ Fergus said.
Greg noticed the past tense. Fergus said no more, so Greg played along.
‘From what little we know, mainly a note left after the third victim was found. He said he dreamed of his victims after scouring the nets for scum, including how they should die. Believed it was instruction from the archangel Gabriel.’
‘Indeed,’ Fergus said, then waited.
Greg studied his host, his hunched shoulders, arms folded tight as if bracing himself for a fright at any moment. Again, Fergus went quiet. Did he know the other reason The Dreamer had been given that name? Only the Unit was supposed to know, and the Chief Constable. Not even the Home Secretary was aware. Greg wasn’t about to give up that information.
Fergus cleared his throat. ‘He wanted his victims to dream when they were dead.’
Greg felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck prick up. How the hell?
‘He taped their eyes open,’ Fergus continued, ‘and showed each of them something before they died.’
Greg felt a stab of nausea. It had been his supposition, never proven, because whatever The Dreamer had shown was between him, the victim, and their Maker. And it had haunted him ever since, because of what The Dreamer might have shown Kate before her life slipped away. Killing her was bad enough, torturing her physically worse still. But what sick twisted thing could he have shown her, to make her take it to her grave? Greg’s head swirled with dark possibilities. He’d been inside the minds of too many serial killers… What else did Fergus know?
The cop show resumed with a wailing siren and a car chase.
Greg stood up, towering over Fergus. ‘Tell me what you know, right now, and how the hell you know it. And turn the damned TV off!’
Fergus didn’t budge. He was unperturbed, seeming to relax as Greg became agitated. Then Greg saw why. Fergus unfolded his arms. In his left hand was a Taser. Where had that come from?
‘Please don’t make me nervous,’ Fergus said calmly, his voice different, suddenly lower pitched. ‘I will tell you everything, but in my own time.’
Greg forced himself to sit back down. Fergus lowered the TV volume a fraction.
‘Your wife’s eyes were taped open, but I already told you, it wasn’t The Dreamer.’
‘Then–’
‘That’s what he wants to know.’
Greg played it back. A classic out-of-context remark that usually signified the descent from normality into Crazyland. Greg thought about spending the next hour trying to tease it out of him. But the cold fire he needed was well out of reach now, and besides, Fergus had a Taser, for fuck’s sake. Greg had come without backup. No one knew he was there. If Fergus Tasered him here and now, Greg’s shouts for help would be masked by the TV. Christ, if Donaldson had been listening, he’d have told Greg to get the fuck out of there. But Greg needed to know more.
‘What are you talking about, Fergus? Who wants to know?’
Fergus looked at Greg as if he was an imbecile. ‘The Dreamer, of course.’
Greg suddenly had a nasty feeling. Even as he asked the question, he already suspected the answer. The descent into Crazyland wasn’t usually so fast and furious. ‘And you know this because…?’
‘The Dreamer told me.’
He got it. The paraphernalia, Fergus in his home where the décor screamed ‘Whacko Central’. But he had to hear him say it. ‘Before or after he was dead?’
Fergus shook his head in dismay. ‘After. From the other side.’
Greg bit his lip to dam the river of expletives building in his mouth, got up and headed for the door. This had been a waste of time. Someone else could come and interview Fergus tomorrow, work out how he knew what he knew. Actually, Potter would be perfect for the job. Almost certainly a leak from the Unit back at the Yard. It had been a year, after all. Donaldson would find it and plug it.
‘Wait,’ said Fergus, scrambling to get off his beanbag. ‘I know who’s next!’
But Greg wouldn’t – couldn’t – listen to another word. This hadn’t been the first time somebody tried to give him information passed on by a ghost, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. How could he have fallen for it again, after all this time? What an idiot he’d been. Yet he’d been so desperate to find out anything about Kate’s murderer, to gain some kind of closure, some kind of an end to… this.
He walked until he found himself on the banks of the Thames, staring down at the coppery reflection of the Houses of Parliament in th
e oily black water, Big Ben sheathed in scaffolding. It was only then that he considered that maybe, just maybe, he should have waited for Fergus to tell him who was next. He’d screwed up. He wasn’t ready for this. He should hand it over to someone more competent. Even Potter. He’d tell Donaldson in the morning.
He pulled his jacket closer against the chill breeze blowing off the river. He needed a drink and some sleep. Donaldson was going to have a field day with him in the morning when he fessed up to this little fiasco. He walked another hour until he’d calmed down and took the bus for the last twenty minutes to get home.
He sat in his armchair and took a long look at Kate’s photo on the opposite wall, while he drank down two fingers of Talisker. He thought about the revolver in the drawer, but the moment had passed, and besides, something had caught in his mind; he couldn’t dispel it. Fergus had known way too much. Donaldson should bring him in for questioning. Maybe Fergus was an accomplice and had actually known The Dreamer. Maybe The Dreamer was dead, and hadn’t killed Kate. That would be a sliver of grace, to know that the sick bastard hadn’t tried to fill his wife’s mind with God-knew-what right before she’d died.
His eyes roamed over the spiderweb. He found it hard to see it the way it had been just a day earlier. The Dreamer is dead. He got up and rearranged the display, pulling off certain lead lines, moving others around. It took an hour, and then he sat down to stare at it. For the first time in a year, he could sense a pattern, or rather two. Two webs. One was The Dreamer’s, and the other… he didn’t know. At least not yet. But now he was certain. The Dreamer was out of the picture, most likely dead, just as Fergus had said. The Fergus fiasco earlier hadn’t been a total waste of time. Greg’s thoughts had moved on, found fresh ground.
It was 2am. Greg lay back on the sofa, staring at the wall. As he drifted off, a thought arose. Fergus hadn’t said how The Dreamer died, only that he was dead. Natural causes? An accident? But then, if someone had done a textbook copycat killing afterwards, this suggested someone had killed The Dreamer.
Sleep was claiming him, but he had one last thought. Who kills a spider? The answer was obvious.
Another spider.
6
Greg phoned Donaldson. Told him about Fergus. The call, the visit, exactly what had happened. Donaldson said nothing. So much nothing, Greg wondered if he was still listening. But every now and again he could just about hear the big man’s breathing, getting heavier. Greg talked some more. Full disclosure. Then he stopped.
When he did speak, Donaldson’s voice was iron. ‘Give me one good reason–’
Greg told him about the Russian Roulette.
More silence.
Greg felt like shit. ‘If you want me off the case–’
‘You were never reinstated.’
‘I know. Look, Potter could bring Fergus in for–’
‘Don’t tell me what to do. I tell you what to do. That’s the way this works. That’s the only way this works.’ Donaldson sighed, and Greg imagined him rubbing his face in his pudgy hands, the way he sometimes did when he thought no one was looking. ‘I’m going to overlook this, for Kate. But if there’s one more–’
Greg had woken up that morning realising how much he needed this.
‘There won’t be.’
‘You know you’ve potentially contaminated a witness? If this Fergus is somehow involved, it’ll be a shitstorm in court when the defence counsel learns what you did. I won’t even ask you what you were thinking, because clearly you weren’t.’
Greg’s turn to say nothing.
‘Come in. You have an interview at midday.’
‘An interview?’
‘Yeah. New rules. Even consultants have to be vetted now. And I have to admit, I wasn’t looking forward to telling you this, but now I’m going to milk it for all it’s worth. Guess who’s going to vet you?’
He guessed. Fair enough. A dose of instant karma. He’d earned it. ‘Rickard,’ he said, just to make Donaldson happy.
‘The one and only. Don’t be late. And do yourself a favour. Wear a tie.’ He hung up.
During his stint in Birmingham, Greg had hung out with a gang of three other criminal psychologists. They called themselves ‘Shrinks Without Souls’ – because to do the job required a kind of twisted empathy. The ability to go inside a serial killer’s mind and see it from the inside out. Not just to understand how they thought, but to appreciate the feelings driving them to such extremes, to see the world from their – albeit sick – point of view, because that was the best way to catch them. It was a dangerous approach, and the gang existed because there was almost no one else you could talk to who wouldn’t end up judging or mistrusting you, or just being downright scared of what you might be capable of given where you’d been. As if you’d been infected, which was closer to the truth than any of them cared to admit. Greg had quit the group when he left Birmingham to join Scotland Yard.
He missed them.
One thing the group had discussed was everyone’s personal bête noire, someone who was their kryptonite, putting them off-balance, tilting them towards becoming unprofessional. They each admitted that they were, after all, only human, and that the pressure of the job had to leak out somewhere. The members of SWS had never told each other who their personal pain-in-the-ass was, though one of the group had guessed Greg’s when he’d seen him at a psychiatric conference, because he’d witnessed the prickly chemistry between Greg and his superior in the police force.
Technically, in the Yard’s matrix organisation, Greg worked for Donaldson, who was Detective Chief Superintendent, and whose branch of CID investigated anything to do with murders and serial killers. Donaldson had a counterpart who focused on organised crime, another on terrorism. But hunting serial killers was a very specialised and media-sensitive area, so there had to be oversight. A nominal position had been created and bestowed upon a renowned professor of criminal psychiatry: Emerson Rickard. He and Greg had clashed a number of times in professional debates, prior to Rickard becoming Greg’s technical supervisor in psychopathological investigations – not his direct boss, exactly, but he could ask about any case, challenge his methods, and block him if he chose to do so.
Thankfully Rickard rarely interfered. They met once a month to discuss the various cases. But Rickard could make Greg’s life misery squared. More importantly, he could bar Greg from working a particular case, based purely on his judgement, and there would be nothing Donaldson or anyone else could do about it.
Greg stared through the window at the glistening Thames, busy with daytime traffic of barges and tourist boats. Rickard had a prime-real-estate corner office and enjoyed the prestige. Greg used to have a desk in an open-plan office, which was just fine. He wondered whether anyone else working on the case had looked for another spider. He doubted it. Which is why they’d got nowhere. The case needed him. Admittedly, he needed the case more. His life outside was a wasteland. But he wouldn’t get far without the Yard’s resources. He couldn’t work the case from his home.
Unfortunately, as psychiatrists went, Rickard was one of the best. It wouldn’t take him long to find Greg’s weakness and use it to deny him access to the case. And then the new killer, whoever it was, would go free, and would kill again.
Greg had to pass this interview.
It was already thirty minutes past the allotted hour. Rickard’s young secretary buried her nose in her files and screens, avoiding eye contact with Greg; she knew Rickard was keeping him waiting unnecessarily. Muriel had hinted that Rickard’s secretary wasn’t particularly loyal to her boss, but she had ambition and understood the game. When Greg had arrived five minutes early and she’d said he was busy, he’d asked if there was anyone else already in his office. She’d shaken her head. Covering for Rickard only went so far, apparently.
While waiting, Greg went over last night’s events, the brief meeting with Fergus, their interaction. As ever, he visualised it from three points of view: his, Fergus’s as far as he could,
and an outsider’s. There was something off about it, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. The way Fergus’s eyes had avoided him most of the time. Not unlike the secretary’s right now.
The door swished open. ‘Ah, Adams, sorry to keep you. Busy, busy, you know. Do please come in.’
Rickard being nice was bad news. Setting Greg up for a fall. He was going to find an excuse to deny him access to the case. Hell, if the roles were reversed, Greg realised, he might do the same. A broken criminologist obsessed with finding his wife’s killer. To Rickard, letting Greg work the case would be like pouring petrol on a fire.
Greg rose from his chair to shake Rickard’s limp hand, then followed him into the plush office and sat down in the comfy chair facing Rickard across an old-fashioned desk with leather upholstery. His gaze flicked to the ornately framed Rorshasch inkblot that had made the professor famous, and won him his elevated position as chief of all criminal psychological investigations based at the Yard, which meant he oversaw pretty much all such work in the UK. One inkblot had saved the lives of a dozen children The Candyman had locked in a cellar just before he’d been arrested. The serial killer refused to say where the kids were. All hell broke loose as details leaked out and triggered a media feeding frenzy, many publicly wanting to waterboard it out of him. In the midst of all this, Rickard had sat The Candyman down in front of a decades-old test and asked him a series of questions, then came out from the interview with the location, or rather, details about the location. The police boiled it down to three possible areas. With the third they struck gold. The Rorshasch interview became legend, and was being taught again in several universities. Greg had been quietly impressed. Rickard had made several spectacularly intuitive leaps during that interview, which the media had put down to genius. Maybe they should put Rickard on this case, ask him to dust off the Rorshasch for Fergus.